by Nora Roberts
It had been impossible, of course. Antique furniture, important guests, social obligations. Out of the question, her mother had said. And that had been the end of it.
“Now I move around quite a bit. It’s not practical.”
“Where do you like best?” he asked her.
“I’m flexible. Wherever I end up tends to suit me, until I’m somewhere else.”
“So right now it’s St. Chris.”
“Apparently. It’s interesting.” She gazed out the window, where the rising moon glittered light onto the water. “The pace is slow, but it’s not stagnant. The mood varies, as the weather varies. After only a few days, I’m able to separate the natives from the tourists. And the watermen from everyone else.”
“How?”
“How?” Distracted, she looked back at him.
“How can you tell one from the other?”
“Just basic observation. I can look out of my window onto the waterfront. The tourists are couples, more likely families, occasionally a single. They stroll, or they shop. They rent a boat. They interact with each other, the ones in their group. They’re out of their milieu. Most will have camera, map, maybe binoculars. Most of the natives have a purpose for being there. A job, an errand. They might stop and say hello to a neighbor. You can see them easing back on their way as they end the conversation.”
“Why are you watching from the window?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Why aren’t you down on the waterfront?”
“I have been. But you usually get a purer study when you, the observer, aren’t part of the scene.”
“I’d think you’d get more varied and more personal input if you were.” He glanced up as the waiter arrived to top off their wine and offer them dessert.
“Just coffee,” Sybill decided. “Decaf.”
“The same.” Phillip leaned forward. “In your book, the section on isolation as a survival technique, the example you used of having someone lying on the sidewalk. How people would look away, walk around. Some might hesitate before hurrying past.”
“Noninvolvement. Disassociation.”
“Exactly. But one person would eventually stop, try to help. Once one person broke the isolation, others would begin to stop, too.”
“Once the isolation is breached, it becomes easier, even necessary for others to join. It’s the first step that’s the most difficult. I conducted that study in New York and London and Budapest, all with similar results. It follows the urban survival technique of avoiding eye contact on the street, of blocking the homeless out of our line of sight.”
“What makes that first person who stops to help different from everyone else?”
“Their survival instincts aren’t as well honed as their compassion. Or their impulse button is more easily pushed.”
“Yeah, that. And they’re involved. They’re not just walking through, not just there. They’re involved.”
“And you think that because I observe, I’m not.”
“I don’t know. But I think that observing from a distance isn’t nearly as rewarding as experiencing up close.”
“Observing’s what I do, and I find it rewarding.”
He slid closer and kept his eyes on hers, ignoring the waiter who tidily served their coffee. “But you’re a scientist. You experiment. Why don’t you give experiencing a try? With me.”
She looked down, watched his fingertip toy with hers. And felt the slow heat of response creep into her blood. “That’s a very novel, if roundabout, way of suggesting that I sleep with you.”
“Actually, that wasn’t what I meant—though if the answer’s yes, I’m all for it.” He flashed her a grin as she shifted her gaze warily to his. “I was going to suggest that we take a walk on the waterfront when we’ve finished our coffee. But if you’d rather sleep with me, we can be in your hotel room in, oh, five minutes flat.”
She didn’t evade when his head lowered to hers, when his lips slid lazily into a lovely fit over hers. The taste of him was cool, with an underlying promise of heat. If she wanted it. And she did. It surprised her how much, just at that one moment, she wanted the flash and burn—the demand that would override the tension inside her, the worry, the doubts.
But she’d had a lifetime of training against self-indulgence, and now she laid a hand lightly on his chest to end the kiss, and the temptation.
“I think a walk would be pleasant.”
“Then we’ll walk.”
* * *
HE WANTED MORE. Phillip told himself he should have known that a few tastes of her would stir up the need. But he hadn’t expected that need to be quite so sharp, quite so edgy. Maybe part of it was sheer ego, he mused as he took her hand to walk with her along the quiet waterfront. Her response had been so cool and controlled. It made him wonder what it would be like to peel that intellect away, layer by layer, and find the woman beneath. To work his way down to pure emotion and instinct.
He nearly laughed at himself. Ego, indeed. For all he knew, that formal, slightly distant response was precisely all that Dr. Sybill Griffin intended to give him.
If so, that made her a challenge he was going to have a very difficult time resisting.
“I see why Shiney’s is a popular spot.” She slanted him a smiling look. “It’s barely nine-thirty and the shops are closed, the boats are moored. A few people strolling along, but for the most part everything here is tucked in for the night.”
“It’s a little livelier during the summer. Not much, but a little. It’s cooling off. Are you warm enough?”
“Mmm. Plenty. It’s a lovely breeze.” She stopped to look out at the swaying masts of boats. “Do you keep your boat here?”
“No, we have a dock at home. That’s Ethan’s skipjack.”
“Where?”
“It’s the only skipjack in St. Chris. There are only a couple of dozen left on the Bay. There.” he gestured. “The single mast.”
To her untrained eye, one sailboat looked very much the same as the next. Size varied, of course, and gloss, but essentially they were all boats. “What’s a skipjack?”
“It evolved from the flat-bottomed bay-crabbing skiffs.” He drew her closer as he spoke. “They were enlarged, designed with a V-shaped hull. Had to be easily and inexpensively built.”
“So they go out crabbing in them.”
“No, mostly the watermen use motor-powered workboats for crabbing. The skipjack is for oysters. Back in the early 1800s they passed a law in Maryland that allowed only sail-powered vessels to dredge for oysters.”
“Conservation?”
“Exactly. The skipjack came out of that, and it still survives. But there aren’t many of them. There aren’t many oysters either.”
“Does your brother still use it?”
“Yeah. It’s miserable, cold, hard, frustrating work.”
“You sound like the voice of experience.”
“I’ve put in some time on her.” He stopped near the bow and slipped an arm around Sybill’s waist. “Sailing out in February, with that wind cutting through you, bouncing on the high chop of a winter storm . . . all in all, I’d rather be in Baltimore.”
She chuckled, studying the boat. It looked ancient and rough, like something out of an earlier time. “Without having set foot on it, I’m going to agree with you. So why were you bouncing on the high chop of a winter storm instead of in Baltimore?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
“I take it this isn’t the boat you invited me out on tomorrow.”
“No. That one’s a tidy little pleasure sloop. Do you swim?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that a statement on your sailing abilities?”
“No, it’s a suggestion. The water’s cool, but not so cold you couldn’t take a dip if you like.”
�
�I didn’t bring a bathing suit with me.”
“And your point is?”
She laughed and started walking again. “I think a sail’s enough for one day. I’ve got some work I want to finish up tonight. I enjoyed dinner.”
“So did I. I’ll walk you to your hotel.”
“There’s no need. It’s just around the corner.”
“Nonetheless.”
She didn’t argue. She had no intention of allowing him to walk her to her door, or to talk his way into her suite. All in all, she felt she was handling him, and a difficult, confusing situation, very well. An early night, she mused, would give her time to sort out her thoughts and feelings before she saw him again the next day.
And since the boat was docked at his home, the odds were good that she would see Seth again, too.
“I’ll come down in the morning,” she began as she stopped a few feet from the lobby entrance. “Ten or so?”
“Fine.”
“Is there anything I should bring? Besides Dramamine?”
He shot her a grin. “I’ll take care of it. Sleep well.”
“You, too.”
She prepared herself for the easy and expected good-night kiss. His lips were soft, undemanding. Pleased with both of them, she relaxed, started to back away.
Then his hand cupped the back of her neck firmly, his head changed angles, and for one staggering moment, the kiss went hot and wild and threatening. The hand she’d laid on his shoulder curled into a fist, gripping his jacket, hanging on for balance as her feet all but swept out from under her. Her mind went blank as her pulse leapt to roar in her spinning head.
Someone moaned, low and deep and long.
It lasted only seconds, but it was as shocking and burning as a brand. He saw the stunned arousal in her eyes when they opened and stared into his. And he felt that basic need claw to a new level inside him.
Not a cool, controlled, and distant response this time, he decided. One layer down, he mused, and skimmed his thumb along her jawline.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes—good night.” She recovered quickly and sent him a smile before turning. But she pressed an unsteady hand to her jittery stomach as she slipped into the lobby.
She’d miscalculated that one, she admitted, fighting to take slow, even breaths as she walked to the elevator. He wasn’t as smooth, polished, and harmless as he appeared on the surface.
There was something much more primitive and much more dangerous inside that attractive package than she’d realized.
And whatever it was, she found it entirely too compelling for her own good.
SIX
IT WAS LIKE riding a bike. Or sex, Phillip mused as he tacked, threading through the light traffic on the Bay toward an available slip on the waterfront. It had been a while since he’d done any solo sailing, but he hadn’t forgotten how. If anything, he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being out on the water on a breezy Sunday morning, with the sun warm and the water blue and the wicked screams of gulls echoing on the air.
He was going to have to start finding time for simple pleasures again. Since this was the first full day he’d taken off in more than two months, he intended to make the most of it.
He certainly intended to make the most of a few golden hours on the Bay with the intriguing Dr. Griffin.
He looked over at the hotel, idly trying to calculate which window might be hers. From what she’d told him, he knew it faced the water, giving her a view of the life that pulsed there and enough distance for her research.
Then he saw her, standing on a tiny balcony, her glossy, mink-colored hair sleeked back and haloed in the sunlight, her face aloof and unreadable from so far away.
Not so aloof close up, he thought, replaying their last sizzle of a kiss in his mind. No, there’d been nothing aloof in that long, throaty moan, nothing distant in that quick, hard tremble her body had made against his. That instinctive, involuntary signal of blood calling to blood.
Her eyes, that water-clear blue, hadn’t been cool; nor had they been intriguingly remote when he’d lifted his mouth from hers and looked into them. Instead, they’d been just a little clouded, just a little confused. And all the more intriguing.
He hadn’t quite been able to get her taste out of his system, not on the drive home, not through the night, not now, seeing her again. And knowing she stood and watched him.
What, he wondered, do you observe, Dr. Griffin? And what do you intend to do about it?
Phillip flashed her a quick smile, snapped her a salute to let her know he’d seen her. Then he shifted his attention away from her and maneuvered into dock.
His brows lifted in surprise as he saw Seth standing on dock waiting to secure the lines. “What’re you doing here?”
Expertly, Seth looped the bow line over the post. “Playing errand boy again.” There was a hint of disgust in the tone, but Seth had to work to put it there. “They sent me down from the boatyard. Donuts.”
“Yeah?” Phillip stepped nimbly onto the dock. “Artery cloggers.”
“Real people don’t eat tree bark for breakfast,” Seth sneered. “Just you.”
“And I’ll still be strong and good-looking when you’re a wheezing old man.”
“Maybe, but I’ll have more fun.”
Phillip tugged Seth’s ball cap off, batted him lightly with it. “Depends, pal, on your definition of fun.”
“I guess yours is poking at city girls.”
“That’s one of them. Another is hounding you over your homework. You finish Johnny Tremaine for your book report?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Seth rolled his eyes. “Man, don’t you ever take a day off?”
“What, when my life is devoted to you?” He grinned at Seth’s snort. “So, what’d you think of it?”
“It was okay.” Then he jerked a shoulder, a purely Quinn movement. “It was pretty good.”
“We’ll put together some notes for your oral report later tonight.”
“Sunday night’s my favorite night of the week,” Seth said. “It means you’ll be gone for four days.”
“Come on, you know you miss me.”
“Shit.”
“You count the hours until I come home.”
Seth barely suppressed a giggle. “Like hell.” Then he did giggle as Phillip snagged him around the waist for a tussle.
Sybill heard the bright, happy sound as she walked toward them. She saw the wide grin on Seth’s face. Her heart did a long, slow roll in her chest. What was she doing here? she asked herself. What did she hope to accomplish?
And how could she walk away until she found out?
“Good morning.”
Distracted by her voice, Phillip glanced over, dropping his guard just long enough for Seth’s elbow to slip through and into his gut. He grunted, wrapped an arm around Seth’s neck, and leaned down. “I’ll have to beat you up later,” he said in a stage whisper. “When there aren’t any witnesses.”
“You wish.” Flushed with pleasure, Seth settled his cap securely on his head and feigned disinterest. “Some of us gotta work today.”
“And some of us don’t.”
“I thought you were going with us,” Sybill said to Seth. “Would you like to?”
“I’m just a slave around here.” Seth looked longingly at the boat, then shrugged. “We got a hull to build. Besides, Pretty Boy here will probably capsize her.”
“Smart-ass.” Phillip made a grab, but Seth danced laughingly out of reach.
“Hope she can swim!” he called out, then raced away.
When Phillip looked back at Sybill, she was gnawing her bottom lip. “I’m not going to capsize her.”
“Well . . .” Sybill glanced toward the boat. It seemed awfully small and fragile. “I can swim, so I suppose it’s all right.”
“Christ, kid comes along and completely smears my rep. I’ve been sailing longer than the brat’s been alive.”
“Don’t be angry with him.”
“Huh?”
“Please, don’t be angry with him. I’m sure he was just joking with you. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
Phillip just stared at her. She’d actually gone pale, and her hand was nervously twisting the thin gold chain she wore around her neck. There was active and acute distress in her voice. “Sybill, I’m not mad at him. We were just fooling around. Relax.” Baffled, he rubbed his knuckles lightly over her jaw. “Razzing each other is just our clever male way of showing affection.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t certain whether to be embarrassed or relieved. “I guess that shows I didn’t have any brothers.”
“It would have been their job to make your life a living hell.” He leaned down, touched her lips lightly with his. “It’s traditional.”
He stepped onto the boat, held out a hand. After the briefest of hesitations, she let him take hers.
“Welcome aboard.”
The deck rocked under her feet. She did her best to ignore it. “Thank you. Do I have an assignment?”
“For now, sit, relax, and enjoy.”
“I should be able to manage that.”
At least she hoped so. She sat on one of the padded benches, gripping it tightly as he stepped out again to release the lines. It would be fine, she assured herself. It would be fun.
Hadn’t she watched him sail into port, or dock, or whatever you would call it? He’d seemed very competent. Even a bit cocky, she decided, the way he’d scanned the hotel until he saw her standing out on her balcony.
There had been something foolishly romantic about that, she thought now. The way he had sailed across the sun-splashed water, searching for her, finding her. Then the quick smile and wave. If her pulse had bumped a little, it was an understandable and human response.
He made such a picture, after all. The faded jeans, the crisp T-shirt tucked into them as blindingly white as the sails, that gilded hair, and the warmly tanned, sleekly muscled arms. What woman wouldn’t feel a bump at the prospect of spending a few hours alone with a man who looked like Phillip Quinn?